


The Well-Dressed Dead

by Liralen



Category: Mad Men, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Blankenship had been a zombie for five days before anyone had noticed, and then it had taken her lower mandible dropping off right in the middle of a phone call for them to realize that the epidemic in the South had finally reached New York City and the offices of Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Well-Dressed Dead

_on southwood plantation road  
where the dead will walk again  
put on their sunday best  
mingle with unsuspecting christian men_

Southwood Plantation Road - The Mountain Goats

 

 

Miss Blankenship had been a zombie for five days before anyone had noticed, and then it had taken her lower mandible dropping off right in the middle of a phone call for them to realize that the epidemic in the South had finally reached New York City and the offices of Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce.

After they'd disposed of the late secretary (a necessity everyone expected Roger to protest but which, to their surprise and discomfort, he performed himself with apparent glee), the next logical step was to call every employee at SCDP into the largest conference room and take a head count. Another secretary, the front office receptionist and a junior artist whose name no one had bothered to learn yet were all missing parts of theirs. A debate briefly arose over whether the girl at the front desk had, in fact, possessed a head when she _started_ at SCDP, but in the end they tied up all three and stuffed them into a supply closet until they could figure out what to do with them later. The immediate issue handled, the majority of the employees were freed to return to work while senior management, as they were wont to do at the least provocation, called a meeting.

Four of the five partners were there--Roger Sterling, Don Draper, Lane Pryce, and Pete Campbell. Bert Cooper, who had always been an oddly spiritual and deeply neurotic man, had holed himself up in his office shortly after the incident with Miss Blankenship and refused to come out until the zombie general issued a formal surrender. It was hard to tell whether Bert was having flashbacks to WWII or had simply watched the latest Vincent Price film too many times.

In addition to the partners, the meeting was attended by Peggy Olsen (who looked to be a combination of nervous and annoyed), Harry Crane (flustered), Ken Cosgrove (smug--for no reason anyone could decipher), Joan (indulgent), and Stan Rizzo, who wasn't actually invited but managed to show up anyway and who made his removal from the conference so strenuous that they finally gave up and tolerated his (slightly less grating) presence.

"I think you all know why you're here," Don opened without preamble. "We've all read about the 'plague', as the Times is calling it at least, that started in Georgia a few months ago. It spread through most of the South--Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, both the Carolinas and Tennessee--in just a few weeks. Recently it's been creeping up the coastline, into Virginia and Maryland, a few suspected cases in Philly, and now--well. You all know what you saw this morning."

He paused, reaching for his glass and frowning when his fingers closed on empty air. Agitated, he snapped, "Joan, can we get some scotch in here, please? It's a god damn apocalypse, I think we could all use a drink."

Once every hand was clasped around a generous tumbler of Glenlivet, Don continued. "As I was saying--you all know what you saw this morning. This isn't something happening far away anymore, someone else's problem. It's in the city now, _our_ city. It's in Manhattan, and it's at Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce. We've ignored it long enough. Now it's time to decide what we're going to do about it."

A stifling silence settled over the conference room as gazes shifted uneasily and glasses were emptied and filled again. Roger Sterling opened his mouth several times and every set of shoulders in the room tensed in anticipation, but every time he ended up working his jaw uselessly until he gave up with a sigh and downed another finger of scotch.

Harry Crane cleared his throat and called out tentatively, "We could always try running."

A chorus of murmured agreement rose, followed swiftly by debate.

"We can't just _leave_ ," Peggy Olsen argued, slapping a tiny hand down on the mahogany surface of the conference table. Her hair was pinned back into a severe bun and her face was flushed pink from the scotch. She seemed surprised by the volume of her own voice, but rallied gamely. "That's not a solution. This job is all some of us have. We have to figure out how to work _with_ this plague, not just run from it."

"I actually agree with Peggy," Pete chimed in. From the corner of the board room where he was stretched out across three adjacent chairs, Stan snorted.

"There's a surprise," he quipped into his glass. Everyone elected to ignore him, except Joan, who reached back without looking and smacked him sharply in the side of the head. He yelped in protest, and Joan nodded solemnly at Pete to go on.

"I think we're looking at this all wrong," Pete said, setting his drink down and getting his hands into what he was saying. "I think this could be a huge opportunity for Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce."

"Is it just me, or does it take longer to say that every time?" Lane inquired from where he was slumped bleary-eyed over his scotch.

"What do you mean by an 'opportunity'?" Don asked. His gaze was fixed and attentive, but his hands twitched restlessly and fumbled to shake out a cigarette. He was probably going into mild withdrawal from the lack of available women to sexually harass.

"I mean, we have the potential to work with a previously untapped market," Pete enthused, warming to his topic. "As far as we know, SCDP is the only firm so far that has zombie employees. One of them's even in Creative! We've got an inside track on what today's zombie wants."

"Today's zombie wants _brains_ ," Roger snapped out around a cigarette. He took a long draw and released a lazy stream of smoke, pointing the glowing end of the cigarette at Pete. "Your brains. My brains. They're not picky. Because they're _dead_."

"You don't know--" Pete started, but Peggy cut him off.

"Pete's right."

Everyone turned to look at her, with the exception of Lane, who'd fallen asleep in a small puddle of Glenlivet, and Ken, who was furiously working out the details to his next short story--about a poor Corsican fisherman who becomes infected by a zombie lobster and the young French zucchini-farmer with whom he falls in love--on the back of several damp cocktail napkins.

"Roger's right, too. They _are_ dead, and they _do_ want our brains. But that doesn't mean that's _all_ they want. No one knows what kind of music they listen to, or what TV shows they might watch, or what kind of clothes they might like to wear. No one knows because _no one's ever asked them_. But we can change that."

She was standing now, a flush of excitement coloring her face along with the alcohol. She met Pete's gaze across the conference table and they both smiled.

"We start with the department stores," Pete said. "Two lines: Sears and Roebuck, and a small designer label. Nothing too pricey, but sophisticated. One line for everyday wear--durable, stain-resistent--"

"And the other for higher-society zombies who still want to look their best out on the town," Peggy finished. Her hands outlined the idea of a billboard in the air. "'Strike a pose as you decompose: clothing for the well-dressed dead.'"


End file.
